Chapter One

Three days.

It’s been three freaking days since I left Phoenix and I have already experienced more rain than I’ve ever seen in thirty-two years living in Arizona.

People in Blackthorn Point keep calling this a drizzle, but where I'm from, water falls from the sky approximately twice a year and everyone loses their minds.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. Obviously, there’s monsoon season and when it rains then, nobody ever calls it “drizzle.”

But this?

Seattle weather so far is just a constant spray of water. There’s so much of it in the air, every breath is like inhaling soup.

Weirdest part? The rain has been falling sideways.

Sideways.

I didn't even know rain could do that.

I stand outside Blackthorn Bay Café with a key in one hand and a coffee in the other, staring up at the faded sign hanging over the door. It makes a jarring squeaky sound as it swings back and forth. I make a mental note to fix that. The first item on a to-do list that I’m sure will be longer than my arm by the end of the day.

The café belonged to my grandmother. Ivy. She was supposed to pick me up from the docks. Blackthorn Point is a quaint little town on a small island just off the coast of Seattle. It does not have a bridge, or a runway. So, the only way to get there is by ferry boat.

Three days ago I staggered off the boat, green faced and knees wobbling, only to find that my grandmother had not shown up.

The cafe technically belongs to her, assuming she hasn’t died. After walking two miles to the tiny town, I found an envelope with my name on it tucked inside the door of the local cafe. Inside was a key.

I assume Ivy wrote my name on the envelope, it was scrawled in tiny handwriting that looked like she was in a rush. But other than that, she didn’t think to write a note.

I unlock the door and step inside.

The familiar scent of coffee, cinnamon, and old wood wraps around me like a hug. I stamp my feet on the tattered welcome mat, and my sandals slosh and ooze with dirty water.

Job number two: buy rain boots.

I peel off my jacket, which has done nothing for shielding my body from the weather. The damp has sunk into my bones. I sling it onto the coatstand beside the door and march in, leaving a wet trail behind me.

Warmth spreads through my insides as I take a sip of my coffee and I look around the empty cafe. Chairs are set neatly around the small wooden tables. Hand-sewn cloths made of lace dress them up a bit and each table has a little vase of fake flowers. Daisies. One in every color.

The murky sunlight filters through the warm-colored windows to make the place feel like home.

At least the café feels welcoming.

Unlike the weather. Or my grandmother.

Who has apparently vanished off the face of the earth.

The bell above the door jingles.

I glance at the clock.

Six-o-three.

Who goes out in the rain at six in the morning? (Except me. Because I live above the cafe and the only way in is from a slippery staircase on the side of the building.)

A man in a bright orange raincoat stomps inside.

He looks about seventy, with wispy gray eyebrows that move of their own accord, and a weathered face that looks more wind-beaten than sun-damaged. He brings with him a musty aroma.

"Good Morning," he says.

"That's debatable," I say with a wink, nodding to the rain tapping the windows. He doesn’t react with so much as a smirk. So I clear my throat.

“How can I help you today?”

He grunts, drags a chair back with a sound so jarring it takes all of my self restraint not to cover my ears and wince. He plops down with a huff and rests his right hand on the table. He wipes his palm, then lifts it to stroke his brows. My eye twitches at a smudge of dirt left on the lace table cloth. 

"I need a smoke."

I blink and my brows lift before I can stop them. Apparently mine also have a mind of their own.

"A smoke?" I parrot, while picking up the frilly apron.

The old man nods impatiently. "Yep."

"I’m sorry, maybe you don’t understand. This is a café."

"Indeed."

"We sell coffee."

Grunt.

I shift my sights to the door and back to the old man who has not moved. Then I finish tying the apron and clasp my hands. I’ve heard of this. Old people can become forgetful. I offer him my friendliest smile and try my best not to sound condescending. 

"We don't sell cigarettes here, sadly. But we have pie, you want something for breakfast? I can make you some pancakes, or bacon. Do you like bacon? I just can’t get you cigarettes."

The man’s eyebrows pull together.

"No, not cigarettes."

He leans forward, resting two grimy elbows on the table. I try not to let him see me wince.

"Who are you, girl? You’re new here, aren’t you? Listen, every Wednesday, I come into the cafe before it opens, and I get a smoke. One of Ivy's special cigars." He looks around with his face wrinkling between his brows. “Where is she, anyway?”

My stomach knots.

Crap. The first day I open the cafe, somebody is already asking for my missing grandmother.

"Her special cigars, you say?" I try to distract him from the topic.

The old man nods, and pats his chest. "The ones that calm my nerves. Good for the old ticker, you see."

I stare.

He stares back.

I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about, and I have no idea how to tell him without raising suspicion. 

"I don't think we carry those."

His frown deepens. He shifts in his chair with a grunt.

"Ivy always keeps them. I need them. This week, it’s been..." A shiny film of sweat collects over his upper lip. The man shifts again and drags a hand across his face.

I force a smile. “I’m so sorry. She’s out right now. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

The lie leaves my mouth before I can stop it and I sound so natural it scares me. I’m not the kind of person to lie. They eat me up inside. I hope I don’t have to tell any more lies.

The man's expression softens. “When’s she back?”

Good question.

I'd love to know myself.

The police think she left town.

I think that's nonsense.

My grandmother once got lost in Costco for forty-five minutes because she refused to ask for directions.

There's no universe where she voluntarily disappears.

"Later," I say.

"She'll be back later,” he says, as if he’s testing the words. I freeze and hold his gaze with a determined smile. A small squeaky sound leaves my lips, that almost sounds like “uh-huh.”

The man seems satisfied.

"Tell her Hank stopped by."

I exhale with relief and a real smile takes over my face as he rises to his feet.

"I will, Hank. Sorry again. I’m Hazel by the way, it’s nice to meet––oh."

He’s already out the door.

Unfortunately that's the exact moment another man walks in.

They collide shoulder first.

Hank grumbles. "Watch where you're going, fool. Can’t you see me walking here? I’m not hard to miss, you know."

The newcomer doesn't even react.

Hank stomps out into the rain.

Meanwhile, the other man enters the cafe and when my gaze lands on his face, I forget how to breathe.

Because wow.

The man standing in my doorway looks like he got lost on his way to filming a Netflix series about emotionally unavailable lumberjacks.

Dark hair.

Strong jaw.

Rain dripping from a black leather coat.

Tall enough to make me question basic geometry.

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone. Which feels totally unnecessary.

And yet…somehow appreciated.

My eyes flick downward. Muscular chest. I can just make out the ink on his chest, in a pattern I can’t fully see.

The handsome hunk of a man has my blood pumping faster than a HIIT session.

Then he smiles and I swear every ration though exits my body. 

"Good morning, darling."

Oh my gosh, he’s British. 

My soul leaves me and I’m floating near the dusty rafters.

His voice is warm. Dangerously warm.

Like hot chocolate with bad intentions.

My mouth is dry, I lick my lips and immediately regret it. Then I have to swallow to make out a word. Crap. Now it’s been too long. I wave an awkward hand and let out a giggle that makes me sound juvenile. "Hi,” I squeak.

Excellent. Very articulate, Hazel. Very mature.

The stranger studies me for a moment. He crosses the space between us and the door slams shut, cutting out the sound of the so-called drizzle outside. My heartbeat drums my ears as he stopped two feet from me. Then he leans closer and for one stupid, gloriously hopeful moment, I think this stranger is actually going to kiss me.

I think I might let him.

Then he growls five little words that take my breath away. And not in a good way.

"I know what you did."

My smile drops, and my soul slams back into my body. I step back, blinking.

"I'm sorry, what?"

His piercing blue eyes squint at me and I swear those two little orbs can penetrate my soul and read all of my secrets. I hold my breath.

"You're not getting away with it."

Amusement vanishes from his face. "You're going to be locked up for a very, very, long time."

My blood turns to ice. Every terrible possibility flashes through my brain.

The missing grandmother. My inheritance.

The fact I've been in town for seventy-two hours and still don't know where half the paperwork is. The secrets I left behind in Phoenix. Who is this guy? What does he know?

"Ex-Excuse…me?" I stutter.

He stares at me for two agonizing seconds. Then bursts out laughing with a deep rumbling roar. Like a lion that thinks it's a cat, playing with its prey.

I don't laugh. I don’t even crack a smile. 

His grin widens at my reaction.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

He extends a hand. His is clean, in contrast to Hank’s. But I look at it with repulsion.

"I'm Garrett Mercer."

I fold my arms.

Meanwhile, his hand hangs awkwardly between us like a bad smell.

The inner corners of his brows twitch as he looks from his rejected hand to my narrowed gaze.

Good. Let him squirm.

"What the heck was that introduction? Do you say that to every stranger you meet?"

He thrusts his hand in a pocket with a smirk. "Only the interesting ones." He winks and his eyes flash with the kind of smugness that gets right under my skin.

Oh.

He's one of those.

"Well congratulations," I deadpan. "You're already my least favorite customer."

His grin somehow gets bigger. Which should be illegal.

"I'm a detective,” he opens his jacket to reveal a shiny badge. I take in a slow breath.

Well.

That explains a lot.

And somehow makes him more annoying.

"And it's my job to ask questions."

"About imaginary crimes?"

"Usually real ones."

Uh-oh.

Noah's gaze drifts around the café.

"I'm actually here to speak with Ivy Quinn."

There it is.

The knot in my stomach is back. I swallow.

"She's out."

He pulls out a chair. “That’s fine. I’ll wait.”

"No,” I blurt, sounding far more panicked than I should.

His dark eyebrow lifts.

"No?"

I grit my teeth. He sounds far too curious. And the way he looks at me makes me get the sense he’s basically a human lie detector. I gotta get rid of this guy before I crack and tell him all my secrets.
Then I’ll definitely get locked up.

"She'll be out all day."

The detective studies me.

A little too closely.

Like he's trying to pull secrets straight out of my skull.

I smile, pretending that I don’t want to smack that smug smile off his face.

He smiles back.

But it doesn’t reach his eyes. We’re both playing nice.

Finally he pulls a business card from his pocket and slaps it on the table.

"When she gets back…”

He emphasizes the last word. "Give me a call."

I pick up the card and stuff it in the front pocket of my apron.

"Sure.” My voice sounds too high to convince anyone and his grin says he does not believe me.

Mine says I don't care.

A moment later he disappears back into the rain.

I exhale when the door closes, and I consider locking it for the day. Maybe it’s too soon to open the cafe. I mean, who am I kidding? I can’t do this. Everyone wants to know where my grandmother is, as the days roll by, there will be more questions.

I don’t know how to do this.

"Oh good. I thought he was never going to leave."

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a grouchy man’s voice from behind me.

I spin around.

The back is empty, just the door to the kitchen and a coffee maker on the counter on the back wall. My pulse rockets.

"Hello? Who’s there?"

Silence for several moments. For a horrible moment I wonder if I’ve inherited a haunted cafe.

"Oh, sorry."

The voice sounds irritated. I shut my eyes and pray.

Please don’t be a ghost. Please don’t be a ghost. Please…

"I didn't mean to startle you."

I look down.

A massive brown Maine Coon sits on the tile floor by my feet.

Blinking at me.

I blink back.

The cat sighs. I’ve never seen a cat sigh before. But this one did.

"Well this is awkward."

I stare.

The cat stares back. We have the most unusual staring contest until my eyes water and I start blinking rapidly.

I open my mouth but no words come out, so I close it.

Open it again.

"No."

The cat tilts his head.

"No?"

"Cats don't talk."

The main coon leaps onto the counter and seems to shrug. "Yet here we are."

I grip the counter hard and my brain goes into overdrive.

Maybe I've finally snapped. The stress of the divorce was enough to drive anyone to a breakdown, and the ink is barely dry on the paperwork. And I don’t think I’ve slept more than a handful of hours since I got to this misty island. Maybe this is what a breakdown feels like.

After getting the divorce papers, the first thing I did was buy a bottle of purple hair dye and color my hair. Maybe that was the beginning of a downward spiral.

Honestly, it feels reasonable.

My grandmother is missing.

A detective just accused me of a crime.

And now the cat is having opinions.

The Maine Coon saunters along the counter and jumps to the tile floor with purpose.

"We’ll do Introductions later."

His bushy tail flicks lazily side to side.

"There is something you should see."

I should absolutely not follow a talking cat.

It’s like the opening scene of every bad decision in human history.

Unfortunately, I do it anyway. This giant ball of fluff takes me through the empty kitchen to the door round the back. I unlock it and push it open. The rain has eased to a light spray now, but the wind slaps my cheeks and I wrap my arms around myself as the cat takes me to the dumpster.

Five seconds later we're standing in the alley behind the café.

Rain drips from the fire escape overhead.

The cat stops beside the dumpster and nods to it.

I follow his gaze. Then my stomach drops.

A pair of rain boots stick out from underneath. They’re blood stained.

Dark.

Wet.

Fresh.

"Oh." I throw my palm against my mouth before a curse can leave it.

I crouch and peer under the filthy dumpster. How the heck did this happen?

My heart hammers.

Please don't be—

It's Hank.

The man who wanted the cigar. I blink several times in shock and horror. And flood of questions cross my mind.

His eyes stare sightlessly.

A pool of blood spreads beneath him. And he is very, very dead.

Behind me, the cat sighs.

"I was afraid of that. Terrible shame. I did like that fella."

I slowly turn toward him.

The rain pours down around us.

My grandmother is missing.

A detective wants answers.

There's a corpse behind my café.

And apparently the cat talks.

Of all the things on my to-do list, I guess I’ll have to put “deal with the dead body,” at the very top. And it’s not even seven in the morning.

I need a drink.